Dogwash

Standing at a bar in the West End of London, listening to a Spanish barman attempting to explain in stilted Manuel-quality English (and resorting to repeating words neither he nor his listeners properly understood in a progressively louder voice to compensate for his lack of vocabulary) the concept of mushy peas, or "mushed peas" as he called them, to a party of puzzled French tourists who wanted to order the traditional English dish of feesh and cheeps.

Ken would have been proud. Lee and Trevor would be annoyed that the barman wasn't a Black foreigner. (Can't have these bloody White Europeans off the Mainland taking the jobs that should go to deserving Somali immigrants, don't you know.) I had difficulty keeping a straight face. Everybody else was just confused.